Willow, she was next, Cyn realized, and though she’d tugged out her beautiful gun, it proved impossible to aim and fire and to also control the Lure—akin to rubbing your nose backward while jumping. She gave in and concentrated on the Lure.
The pink Lure threads twisted away as she pushed and tangled them. The three Ghoul Lords had overwhelmed every single beaster in the room, instantly, and the soldiers and Willow took a step toward their nemesis, and the stinkers ran at them.
She had to choose. Had to. Cyn flung out her arms in a violent gesture and the Lure spun away from Willow and from Vargr and the back line of soldiers. After a fraction of a second of confusion, they either aimed weapons and began firing, or they ran, as Willow did, sprinting toward the back of the room.
“Fire the explosives!” Willow screamed.
She was right, but the trigger was beside the second row, and the others were doing everything they could, frantically shooting. If she let go of her fragile control, if shestoppedpushing back the Lure, it would have them all.
Vargr sprinted forward to that second line of beasters and the trigger. He slid and dropped to his knee.
A stinker was flying at Willow. Though in mid-air, its legs were already drawing up to strike, and with only three soldiers now firing, it was going to get her. The other five soldiers at the front were down, dying or wounded.
Choose. Lure or Willow. Cyn whipped up her gun and strained at the trigger…concentrate, concentrate, her vision zeroed in despite the cacophony. Three times, she fired. Two shots took out the stinker heading for Willow, smacking it backward in chunks. Her last shot blew the head off a skinsuit that’d crossed the line of the frontward charges.
Vargr, somehow, hit the trigger.
The room erupted, the entire front of it disintegrating into a deafening hurricane of whirling glass, crayons, pieces of skinsuit and stinker, and whatever else this place was made of.
When it settled, nothing lived beyond that explosive line. The floor was mostly gone. The windows were gone. Part of the ceiling hung down, swinging through the clouds of dust—more pieces fell from it while she watched. The operator was gone, no doubt blown into space. As were all the skinsuits and stinkers. Dust made it difficult to see who was who, but others like her were alive.
Vargr still kneeled at the second line. Shrouded in white, he looked up, his face pained, he nodded, croaked out a “Fuck. We made it.”
She nodded too. Spitting out dust, she took a step forward. That weird hunger was back, gnawing at her stomach, and she realized it was linked to times when she strained to use her power over the Lure. Too much of that punched her energy levels into medieval levels.
Eat later, there are people dead and dying.
Someone was coming her way, then another. Little Mo clattered out of the cloud, dusty but intact. Several males swore. That firstsomeonecoalesced into a person—Willow, her blue hair made gray-white.
“Thank god.” Tearing up, she clasped Willow’s hand. “Thank god you survived that.”
It was funny how Willow’s eyes also shone. She wheezed as if the air was making it hard to breathe and wiped at her face with the back of her arm. “Yes. I did. Am I right in thinking we killed three of the Ghoul Lords?”
“Yes… I felt their minds go.” She had indeed, though she’d only realized it then.
“Good.” Her hand loosened and fell from Cyn’s grasp. She turned and yelled. “We need to get out of here, fast. Casualties? How many? Can we fly them down?”
“Cyn? Vargr is down and hurt bad!”
Whoever had said that she did not know, because she was running forward to where Vargr lay in a pool of spreading blood. What she hadn’t seen through the haze was a stinker before him, dead, with its legs stained red.
Another wing-soldier turned Vargr over, for he’d fallen onto his face. Blood was pouring from several holes, including a gash across his right arm that nearly severed it. Bone stuck out through the hole.
Why the fuck hadn’t he said? She crashed to one knee and was torn between yelling at him to open his eyes and doing something about the main wound, the one that would kill him if they didn’t stop it bleeding. Vincent wasn’t here. He’d been too heavy to fly up. Did anyone else know medical stuff—emergency aid?
The soldier beside her had removed his belt and was wrapping it about Vargr’s upper arm. She grabbed the shoulder and lifted the arm as he tried to tighten the belt. The bleeding slowed to a pulsed spurt, then became a thick red leak.
That was better wasn’t it?
“Vargr. You’ll be okay,” she whispered hoarsely. “We’ll get you help. Willow!”
The woman was already here. “I’ve got someone who can fly him down. Vincent is our best chance.”
But he was gasping in air as if he could barely get enough oxygen and hadn’t answered her. His eyes were shut though his fingers moved.
“Excuse me, Miss.” Someone tapped her. “I’ll take him.
As he was manhandled into another wing-soldier’s arms, thoughts, questions, rampaged through her head.
